Smile
by h-scribble
Summary: It's a week after the battle. Charlie tries to remember everything about his brother but finds out he has missed out on so much. He consoles his family and George as much as he can, but ultimately realises that one must relearn how to smile in time.
1. Fred and George

I'm 11 years old. I'm teaching the four year old twins to tie their shoes. "Pinch them to make bunny ears, and then over and under and pull them tight." George grins as his third attempt is successful. Fred looks up at me with sky blue eyes and asks, "Why bunnies?"

I'm 18 years old. I ruffle the 11 year old twins' messy red hair and leave for work, 2095 kilometres away. "Don't worry! I'll see you guys soon." George's smile fades, but he hugs me back. Fred asks, grinning like the devil, "I get your room, right?"

I'm 22 years old. I send an owl to the 15 year old twins to tell them I'm staying in Romania. "I'll try to get time off soon to visit.." George laughs, clinging on to the post card. Fred grabs the card away and replies, "Send me a dragon?"

I'm 27 years old, bloodied up with my wand held limply in my hand. I stand in the broken, dark hall I knew so well, near the 20 year old twins. I pat Mum on the back, but won't... can't console her. George won't look at anyone; he had been conscious of crying since he first went to school, but doesn't seem to care now. Fred is silent.


	2. George, sans Fred

It was a week after it. I didn't bother sending an owl to my employer. He'd figure it out soon enough. It was quiet. I used to like silence; no pranks being pulled, no music blaring loudly from various rooms, just time to read books and write stories and sleep. But now the traffic noise from outside was ominous. It filled every crack in the house with silent thunder. The white noise that you hear, making you believe in daemons. God, what would I give to hear them yelling when they managed to turn each other's hair blue, what would I give to scream at them to turn the music down and give me peace and quiet. George would just stick his tongue out and turn it up, but Fred, sure enough, would talk him out of it after a while, and say he was sorry to me.

George didn't make faces at me anymore. He moved around the empty house, past Mum, sobbing secretly behind her locked bedroom door, unnoticing of my dad, pacing outside, lines on his face deepening, past his room, bursting with aching memories. He wouldn't let anyone near him, 'cept me, occasionally. Friends of the twins came over to comfort him; he'd just stand up and go to another room. I don't know what was going on inside his head, for his face was stony and blank. Did he feel the pain? Or was he just pretending; putting on that innocent face he would when he didn't want Mum to catch him joking around. He didn't seem sad, or angry, or mad, even. It would've been better if he had cried. Better than his silence. He was just there. Bill tried to talk to him, being Dad, but he wouldn't listen. Were there gears behind his now salt-stained eyes humming just in the right rhythm to form a plan? Bill became frustrated.

"Why can't you face it? He's dead. He's not coming back. So stop sulking about and take pity on us, too, for God's sake."

George didn't flare up. He didn't laugh it off, either. His face remained slack and infuriating to look at.

"George, be a man! Mum's been crying every night, did you know that? Since it happened, Dad's been driving himself mental! Have you even seen Percy since it happened? And what about Ginny? She's not exactly happy, anymore. We're _all_ hurting. Can't you see that?"

Bill, predictable. Trying to be a father to George once again. Couldn't he tell that George didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him? Bill was always too much older to have a connection with the twins. Always studying too hard at school and then going out in the summer to take some girlfriend or other on a date. I remember one Christmas holiday. Maybe a day or two before Christmas day, the twins were 5 years old and already sneakier and slyer than me and Bill. Mum was busy fussing about Ron and Ginny, still babies at that time. Dad wasn't at work, but instead in town. It was the Christmas when he had gotten a bonus from the Ministry, and had gone out to buy Mum good wine and an expensive candy bar for each of us kids. Percy, as usual, was writing feverishly in his notebook, perhaps about some new thing he had read, I never bothered to find out. Percy may have been a git, but he was always the smart one. But back to it, I was left to handle the fiery haired twins, as Bill had gone to help Mum, being the helpful big brother. Fred and George, always asked the most difficult questions to answer. Why did snow come down, and not up? If Saint Nicholas could fit down a chimney, could they try it too? I ruffled their hair and told them that if the snow came up, we couldn't play in it, and that maybe they could try climbing down when Mum wasn't watching. I have so many memories of the twins, but I missed so much of them. I'm loaded with stories from when they were little. Up until the age of 18, to be precise. After that, I left for Romania and didn't hear from them for years. Sure, I got a letter once or twice, but none worth mentioning. Bill wrote to me too, a year before _it_ happened. "You're being selfish, Charlie. Leaving your family, especially in this time when there's a war going on." Bill. Always trying to be Dad. But then again...Dad wasn't exactly being a dad anymore. Someone had to be there.


	3. George

Three days after it, after they both, in a way, died, I was sitting on the porch with him. Just keeping him company. I didn't say anything. He didn't say anything. We just sat there, mulling over thoughts. I suppose everyone has to confront the truth sooner or later. Mum was telling herself that it couldn't have been prevented; Dad broke whatever was in his hand whenever Fred's name was mentioned. I think George was pretending like it never happened, but who knows. He might be formulating the best prank in the world behind his indifferent face.

A figure dressed all in black came into sight down the dirt road leading to the Burrow. He looked at George and me, sitting outside, took a breath, and headed our direction. I recognized him. Who didn't, really. The boy who was still living. He hesitantly walked up the steps onto the porch. He looked like he wanted to say something, but wanted me to ask him what was wrong. Ha. Like I was going to do him that pleasure. Harry grounded his feet and said those evil words. "It was my fault. I'm so sorry." Part of me wanted to tell him it was all right and that it would've happened anyway. But the other, hateful, driving part wanted to punch him right there and then. "You're sorry," I spat at him. "Well what do you want me to say, that it wasn't your fault? Because it was." My voice was rising. "You stand there, in front of him, telling him that you're sorry. And you expect him to forgive you? My brother, his _twin_, is dead. It _is_ your fault, Harry. Leave George alone." I heard my voice shouting above all to be heard, but I didn't recognize it as my own. George stood up calmly and went into the house, past Bill and Ron, running to hear what all the ruckus was. Harry turned away. I sat down, boiling tears staining my face. I brushed them away, running my fingers through my red hair. Ron muttered something to Harry, who, in turn, nodded curtly and walked to the edge of the yard and disapparated. I could see Ginny through the window, eyes streaming with tears. Her crying was more familiar than her happy, nowadays. Ron's brow furrowed and he walked heavily back inside, most likely to comfort Ginny again. Bill sat next to me on the bench. For once, he was not accusatory, or angry, or even disappointed. He patted my shoulder silently and said, in a low voice, "It's not his fault and you know it." Something involuntary in my brain made my head nod to him. Bill's voice shook a little, "We'll get through it. Somehow...we'll move on."

In the rule book for men, there's a chapter on how you should never cry and never _ever_ hug someone while doing it. But in fine print, if you look closely, it says that there are exceptions. And so I hugged my brother, my best friend, and tried to pull myself together. I guess you need to have someone to pat your back and let you act like a baby even at the age of 27.


	4. George and Fred

I'm 28 years old. I married a wonderful Irish girl and moved to Scotland with her, close to the family. I opened up my own dragon sanctuary for the dragons that had escaped during the war. I stand in the joke shop, Weasley Wizard Wheezes, searching for my brother in the sea of bright orange and purple shelves. George is standing a while away, talking animatedly to a couple teenage girls, eyes darting to the love potions near them. His face is lined, much too worn for a man of 21 years. He pulls himself away. We chat. I leave. He closes up the shop for the night and walks heavily up the stairs to his single apartment.

I'm 35 years old. I have three beautiful children. I bring them to Christmas dinner with the family at the Burrow. It's a giant reunion. Everyone's got their little children, some sleeping, some playing, some crying. My own tiny blond girl runs clumsily to hug her cousins. My wife is holding the hands of our twin ginger-haired boys. Mum and Dad, old now, welcome us warmly and pinch the kids' cheaks, grumbling happily about the excess of Weasleys. I spot George. He's bending down, I can't see what he's doing. His wife, a dark haired girl, caught my eye and grinned. I stride over to her and George. I can see now. He is on one knee, consoling his two year old son, who has his pink index finger in his mouth. "Don't worry, little guy," says George, "You just got it stuck in a door! I bet Lucy's really really sorry. Come here, Freddie." He holds out his arms and the little carrot-topped boy runs into them, toothily grinning. George smiles.


End file.
